Panem et Circenses
by SSMcPriceley
Summary: "On the hundred and twenty-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that the strength needed to kill enemies is great, but the strength needed to kill friends is greater, all tributes will be reaped from the same district." District Nine is going into The Hunger Games; and they're going together. Rated for violence and graphic character deaths (Well it is The Hunger Games...)
1. Chapter 1

"On the twenty-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that their children were dying because of their choice to initiate violence, every district was made to hold an election and vote on the tributes who would represent it."

They were gathered together. All ten of them. Gritted teeth watching the projector grimly. President Mission was reading from a crinkled cue card, reminding everyone of the horrific events from previous years.

A few of them were holding hands nervously, incessant fiddling was rife, and Kevin thought he might gnaw his bottom lip clean off.

"On the fiftieth anniversary, as a reminder two rebels died for each Capitol citizen, every district was required to send twice as many tributes."

It was the last year that any of them would be eligible for The Hunger Games, and it just so happened to be held on the 125th anniversary. That meant a Quarter Quell. They hadn't been alive to experience the hundredth anniversary, but they had been required to watch re runs. Knowing what had happened then was enough to increase the tension tenfold.

"On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes were reaped from their existing pool of victors."

The memory of those games had been washed out. There was barely anything to remind the districts of what had happened. Film footage was scarce, and information about the following uprising was hard to find.

It didn't matter anyway, because shortly government forces had risen up again, and Panem was once again under Capitol control.

"On the hundredth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that there is very little hope for them at all, districts were required to enter all children of eligible age into the arena."

It had been a blood bath more terrible and frightening than anyone had ever seen before. Every child between the ages of twelve and eighteen had been slaughtered. All except one.

He had come from their very own district. District nine, gatherers of grain, overlooked and humble, had produced a victor. No one knew quite how he'd done it. The young farmer boy named Joe.

"On the hundred and twenty-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that the strength needed to kill enemies is great, but the strength needed to kill friends is greater, all tributes will be reaped from the same district."

A collective intake of breath was heard, followed by a general sense of relief.

"What are the chances?"

"It won't be us."

"They'll want a good show, it will be a career district."

A montage of all eleven districts followed by footage of the wreckage of twelve and thirteen flashed across the screen, presumably so the second segment of the broadcast could be prepared. Sure enough, a couple minutes later, President Mission was back on the screen.

A glass bowl was presented to him containing eleven slips of paper. His spindly fingers rummaged in the bowl for a moment before they clasped onto a crisp cut and folded scrap.

"The district represented in the hundred and twenty-fifth annual Hunger Games will be district…nine."


	2. Chapter 2

The following week the district had been in uproar. Secluded in District Nine, they didn't hear much about what was going on across Panem. Most would be celebrating. A year where their loved ones would not be at risk. But district's one, two and four were angry.

Those who had trained their whole lives and were preparing to volunteer this year for the honour and glory, now would never have the chance.

As Kevin hung back from school one morning to watch the news, he was sickened at the protests and displays going on in the other districts.

"Don't they realise how lucky they are?" Kevin snarled, more to himself than anyone else. His mother bit her lip nervously as she watched peace keepers quell the protesters with their sticks and guns.

She had her arms round the shoulders of her youngest son, Jack. Always a pessimistic woman, she had worked out how many male tributes would be reaped in this year's special games, and it was possible every single one of her sons could be competing.

Jack looked uncomfortable under the sharp clutches of his mother, but didn't complain despite the nails digging into his shoulders. Kevin turned to see her knuckles fading to white.

"Mum?"

"Hmm?" She roused herself from her horrifying vision to look at her eldest.

"If one of them gets reaped, I'll volunteer."

She didn't say anything. What was there to say? How could a mother choose which of her children she would rather die?


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: I'm updating this fic_ at least_ once a day, which doesn't mean all the chapters will be short, some will be longer, but there will be lots of snippets so just stay on the ball with updates and enjoy the ride...**

The doors to the justice building opened and Mayor Mafala, followed by three others appeared to the crowds. One was his daughter, just turned sixteen, his pride and joy. Despite being the mayor's daughter, her name was in the bowl in front of them, yet he hid his fear behind a bright smile.

Just after the pair of them came Joseph. This was the man who twenty-five years ago had managed to become the champion over thousands of other children. He'd killed many of them himself. You wouldn't be able to tell from his wide white smile, perfect blonde hair and dashing demeanor, that he'd done it.

Behind him came their announcer and escort from the Capitol. Unused to such finary in district nine, the man looked incredibly out of place. His arched blonde hair seemed to sparkle in the morning sunshine. His robes, probably considered the height of fashion in the Capitol, looked excessive, a mix match of colour and material that finished half way down his calves.

"Welcome welcome welcome," He smiled down at the grim crowd. "I am Moroni, and welcome to the reaping for this year's annual hunger games!"

There was a smattering of applause that richoched off the buildings lining the square, but it quickly quietened down.  
"Now this year is a very special year, because it is our Quarter Quell, and all twenty-four tributes will be reaped from right here in district nine."

Moroni moved to the glass bowl containing hundreds of slips of paper and began to rummage through it.  
Across the square, several metres away, Kevin was grinding his heel into the ground to contain his emotion. His finger nails were making dents in his palms. From here he could see his three brothers but not his sister or mother who both must be hidden in the crowd.

Moroni had caught hold of a slip of paper and had raised it reverently. He cleared his throat and licked his glossy lips to read the name printed there.


	4. Chapter 4

Seeing his mother's face when his name was called was something that would come back to haunt Connor McKinley. Was it relief? Dare he even think...happiness? To even begin to imagine that his own mother was unconcerned that her only son would be entering the arena where few returned was sobering. Finally, the difficult one, the son she didn't quite know what to do with, was being taken off her hands. She'd never have to worry about him again.

The crowd parted for the first in their number to make their way to the platform. Connor squinted as he turned back to face them all from the raised stage, the sun fully in his eyes. His knees began to feel weak and he noticed how his fingers were suddenly trembling.

"Our first tribute! Connor McKinley!" Moroni grabbed his wrist, forcing it into the air. The silent crowd watched numbly. A pair of peacekeepers stepped forward to guide Connor into the justice building. He was shown to a small wooden bench where he was instructed to wait.

The muffled sounds from the square were barely heard here behind the large doors and stone walls. Connor heard a name being called, knowing that this was someone he may soon have to face with a weapon. After a short while the doors opened again and some peace keepers let in a boy about his age, maybe slightly younger.

They nodded to each other, then the door was closed on them both.

The only sound was the scraping of Connor's feet on the footboards as he swung them back and forth, and the other tribute's fingernails tapping rhythmically on the seat. After a while Connor turned to his fellow tribute and smiled weakly, wondering how you start a conversation with someone whose death clock has just begun to tick.

"Well..."

"Hmm?" The boy turned to Connor, dark eyes framed by very long lashes.

"I haven't seen you around."

"I keep to myself."

"I don't know how I'm going to do this." Connor found it was easier to talk if he didn't look directly at the boy, but at the panelled wall just behind him. "I've never even held a knife before."

"You want my advice?"

"Sure."

"Don't say things like that out loud."

Connor thought back to some of the previous games he'd seen. The ones where a seemingly weak tribute turned blood thirsty at the last minute or when members of the career pack broke down. Appearance and reality were everything in the games.

"I'm Connor McKinley by the way."

"I know, I heard them call your name."

"I didn't hear them call yours."

"Ghali, Ghali Alupo."

"Nice to meet you." Connor extended his hand, but it was ignored. Ghali averted his eyes with a difficulty he didn't want to show outwardly.

"Sorry but, I can't make friends. It makes them harder to kill."


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: Reviewers are the most beautiful of people, thank you. Ok bye you'll never here from me again...**

"...Price."

Kevin froze.

Everyone was shifting, fiddling with their hands, hair, and nails, but he alone stood still. That was his name. How long had he been standing there motionless? How long before some official guard came over to wrestle him to the platform?

He'd zoned out before. Watching the clouds move slowly across the grey drizzly sky was peaceful and took away the knowledge, even if it was just for a moment, that someone was being chosen for almost certain death.

But no one was coming for him. Instead the crowd had parted a few feet away from where he was standing and a young boy was making his way forward. It was his brother.

He stood in a trance for a moment, the reality of the situation beginning to sink in. He couldn't let this happen . This wasn't right. He caught sight of his mother now, running forward to the barriers where the helpless parents were made to wait. Feet rooted to the ground, he scanned the children in the square. He could see Patricia now, and there was Jack, both had run to the edge of their roped sections to watch Luke Price, the second youngest sibling, making his way to the platform. He remembered the promise he'd made. Knew what he had to do.

"Wait!" He yelled over the complete hush. "Wait! You can't-"

A guard had made his way over to the commotion and had jabbed him with one of the sticks they used to control people on reaping day. Kevin gasped for air, the wind knocked out of him, his knees colliding painfully with the dusty ground.

Another guard was hastily pushing his way towards his brother, shepparding him to the platform.

"Wait!" Kevin screamed hopelessly. "I'll do it! Pick me, please, I volunteer!"

Almost immediately, the guards turned in synch and began to march towards Kevin, flanking him on either side and ushering him over to the podium. He just had time to nod to his three brothers, his sister, and lastly his mother, before he was forced into the justice building.

Panting hard, he didn't sit where he was instructed, ignoring the other two male tributes already there. There was no turning back now. He'd done a noble thing in saving his brother, but at the same time he'd be leaving his family and there was slim chance of returning home. They could survive without him he told himself over and over. He'd done the right thing. His brother wasn't going to die.

He'd just caught back his breath when the doors opened again to let in the next unlucky tribute. Tears streaming down his face, legs wobbling uncontrollably, Jack Price ran straight to his brother and flung his arms round his waist.

"What-?"

Kevin prised him off and held him by the shoulders. "What are you doing?"

"I was-...I was chosen..."

"No, b-b-but that's not fair!"

"Mum's got Luke, he's going to be ok, you saved him." Jack sniffed loudly and buried his head in his big brother's waist. "You could only volunteer for one of us."

"They knew," Kevin seethed. "They must have known. All they want is a good show, I'm going to kill them!"

He launched himself at the doors, fists clenched, fully intending to claw some Capitol member's face off. A peace keeper stepped forward and held him back. Kevin was strong but not strong enough. He struggled for as long as he could before visibly collapsing.

A second pair of hands, softer, gentler, took hold of his shoulders and led him over to the bench. "It's going to be ok Kevin," Connor said as he settled him down.

"That's a lie," Kevin spat. Jack moved over to his brother and sat next to him, taking his hand in his. Now they were both crying. Jack tears of sadness, and Kevin tears of anger.


	6. Chapter 6

Moroni's perpetual smile was far from infectious, it was sickening. Nabulungi was glad that she didn't have to see it. Sitting on the platform, behind the reaping bowls, she was safe from seeing his face. At the same time however, she was forced to see the faces of the terrified children and had to watch them as they walked up to the platform.

She looked at her father. His jaw was set and he seemed to be looking off at a point in the distance, never losing his focus.

She heard the rustle of all the slips of paper as Moroni swilled them round the bowl with his well practised hand. He shielded his eyes from the sun to read.

"Na-Naba-Nabu...Nabulungi? Nabulungi Hatimbi?"

At first Nabulungi rolled her eyes, yet another person who couldn't pronounce her name, but then it hit her. Her name had been called. Her father had raised from his chair, the shock and hurt visible clearly on his face. All pretence of staying strong for his district had vanished.

"You can't..." He whispered, just loud enough for her to hear, taking her small hand in his.

"I have to."

"If any of them lay a hand on you I will-...I don't know..."

"Don't worry Baba, I can fight."

"I don't want you to fight."

Some peacekeepers had emerged, coming to stand close to her, indicating that she should go inside. She gave her father's hand a last squeeze before entering the justice building.

All the way across the square, right at the very back edge, a boy with unruly dark curly hair and glasses was standing on his very tip toes to see over the many heads. He was already standing on a flat paving stone that had raised out of the uneven ground and could just make out the platform in the distance. He adjusted his glasses pushing them back on the bridge of his nose, just catching the girl whose name had been called disappearing through the doors, head held high.

Moroni's hand was once again digging in the bowl. Arnold was naturally shy. He never stuck his nose in other people's business, never put his foot in, never spoke up. He'd learnt not to. After years of trying to make friends at school, but just being dismissed as either obnoxious or desperate, he'd learnt to keep quiet. So when he heard his name read from the slip of paper his first thought was that they should probably put it back in again because the idea that he could actually compete in the hunger games was ridiculous.

It was the longest walk in his life to reach the podium, made worse by the looks he was receiving from his classmates. Moroni tried not to look disappointed. So far their batch of tributes didn't look particularly suitable for the hunger games. The Quarter Quell was supposed to be a massive display, worth the twenty-five year wait for one.

Arnold stumbled as he climbed the steps to the platform. In normal circumstances, someone would have laughed. But when your life is in danger, even the most laughable acts performed by Arnold Cunningham, were not funny.


	7. Chapter 7

"I know what you're going to do, and I don't think you should do it."

Chris Thomas ignored the voice in his ear and batted away the hand that came to reasonably rest against his own.

"This isn't the solution," James Church persisted, desperately trying to get Chris to at least turn and face him. "You can't run from this."

"Oh James." Chris sighed, his teeth gritted. "If you had the chance to run away from your home you would, don't even bother lying."

James was silent for a moment. He knew Chris was right. If he could escape the house that he shared with his father, he would without a second thought. "Yes, but killing yourself isn't running away. It's just dying."  
"Maybe that's for the best."

Chris heard someone's name being called. Someone he didn't know but felt like he should. It was probably someone he passed daily, maybe they'd exchanged words, and maybe they'd be missed. Chris watched as they stumbled nervously to the platform, a young man whose life was about to change.

Chris knew he wasn't going to let that happen, but to this boy, a million terrifying thoughts were running through his head. Chris let him make it all the way up the creaky steps to the stage where pairs of eyes from everyone in the district stared at him before speaking up.

"I volunteer."

It was quiet, heard only by a few around him. They turned inwards to stare at the pale, skinny boy who had spoken up.

"Don't, please..." James murmured just loud enough for Chris to hear.

"I volunteer," He repeated, his voice a little shaky but gaining in confidence. A ripple effect passed out around him and soon the whole square was looking at him. A week ago he would be just like the rest of them. Fingers crossed. Praying that his name wouldn't be called.

But things like the value of your life change when you're kneeling by your sister's deathbed. He caught his mother's eye in the crowd of anxious parents and gave her a steady nod.

Racked with guilt he knew it was the only thing to do. He'd fight to the death in there, and he'd do it in her name.

James was powerless to stop him. There was a tiny glimmer of hope in his mind as he watched his friend walk weakly to the platform as he noticed the boy's head held high. He knew how much Chris's little sister had meant to him, knew how much pain he'd been through already. If anyone could stand the psychological tests of the arena it was him.

All hope died however as the next contestent was called forward. Mutumbo Lokeris. Huge and heavy set for a boy his age, who looked like he was strong enough to crush Chris's skull in the palm of his hand.


	8. Chapter 8

The names kept coming, each slip of paper scraped from the bowl printed with a name chosen for death; Gotswana Obote the doctor's son, Sadaka Pio the teacher's daughter, Eric Schrader and Noah Neeley the inseparable mischief makers of district nine.

These were some of the hardest names to see drawn. The friends who would be going into the arena together. Everyone watching knew that at some point their weapons would be turned on each other. The arena sucked all compassion away. The viewers had seen it time and time again, competitors walking in holding hands only to slit each other's throats a week later.

The crowd was growing restless. Less than half the names had been drawn, and the sun, now high in the sky, was beating painfully down on the backs of necks. They had yet to see someone who looked like they could fully handle the strains of the arena, and even the volunteers weren't exactly career material. With the usual career pack members of districts one, two and four not included, the group would have to form from within the vulnerable district nine.

The corners of Moroni's smile were beginning to crease from the strain of smiling for so long. As he waited for the latest tribute to be called, a tall thin boy named Freddie Davis, he began to pick at his perfectly shaped luminous green nails. He reached into the bowl to pull yet another slip, the action now dulled of its meaning due to repetition.

"Brigham Young!"

It was as if every sound in the square had been sucked into an inexplicable vacuum. They all recognised that name, some of the bookies even had him down on their lists as a potential volunteer. It was no secret how close the boy had become with the district's only previous winner, Joseph himself. Brigham was his little protégée, like an adoptive son, the boy had lost his real parents to a farming accident in the grain field.

He was strong, intelligent, dark, mysterious, all the good qualities of a hunger games winner. His clothes were as shabby as most in district nine, but he was fresh faced, dark hair swept back into a neat pony tail.

The fact that Brigham Young was going into the arena cast a dark shadow on the rest of the tributes. Joseph already had his work cut out for him, it would be impossible to protect all twenty-four of the tributes, he would no doubt focus on his favourites. Brigham would be getting the sponsorship.

Even after he'd disappeared into the justice building the crowd was still preoccupied. So much so that they barely noticed the next name being called. As James Church walked steadily to the platform, the only two faces he could see fixed solely on him were his parents.

Just before the doors closed he noticed his mother's tight smile and his father's even tighter hand round her wrist.


	9. Chapter 9

"Well isn't this delightful?!"

Moroni clasped his hands together and looked expectantly at the twenty-four tributes gathered before him. The justice building had never been so full. While some struggled to hold back tears, others looked indifferent or even confident. Kevin had his hands protectively on Jack's shoulders eyeing the other tributes suspiciously.

"Now there's a slight change of rules this year. As there are so many of you, there just isn't time for a segment on all your families, and there's not much space in here either." Moroni glanced around the shabby room in distaste taking in the scuffed carpet and faded curtains. It certainly wasn't Capitol luxury that was for sure. "So straight onto the train we go!"

A large group of peacekeepers came to stand beside them all, framing them in their circle. They were guided towards the back door and out into the open once more. This back route, unseen by the people in the square, led straight to the train line where a shiny carriage glinted in the sun. The trains used to transport the grain in district nine were not much more than wooden carts. This was clearly a Capitol train with its characteristic dark curves and shiny silver.

Kevin held Jack's hand tightly so he wouldn't be lost amongst the crowd of them now piling onto the train. He took in the high barbed wire fence and the heavily armed guards, there was no other way to go, no chance of escape.

The exterior of the train was deceptive. The slim look disguised a comfortable spacious area inside. It was the most colour Kevin had seen all in one place in his lifetime. He wished he could have enjoyed it, but under his present circumstances, the train seemed nothing more than a glorified tomb.

"Now, I'm sure you all want to get to know each other." Moroni beamed giving a flick of his blonde hair, the sparkly strands tossing. This was the last thing any of them wanted to do. Connor glanced over to Ghali, now realising his words were true. You couldn't make friends with people you had to kill, it was just impossible. "Help yourself to food, your individual rooms are down the corridors either side of this carriage. You are now free to roam this train. Dinner is at seven so be back here for then."

Before Moroni had finished his introductory spiel, one of the tributes had already taken a seat in one of the deep armchairs, picked an apple from the tiered plate, and swung his boots onto a low table. There was a silence as everyone watched him take a violent bite out of the apple before looking away as he glanced over.

"Um...feet off the furniture?" Moroni stuttered, feeling a little stumped.

The boy kept his dead pan look, staring straight at Moroni, as he slowly lifted his feet off the table. He raised his eyebrows as a question, his mouth drawn into scorn. "Happy?"

"Y-yes that is much better."

Kevin frowned, pulling Jack closer to him. "Come on," He said quietly. "Lets go." Leading his younger brother by the hand, they found the compartment with Kevin's name next to it. They sat side by side on the bed, both their body languages already admitting defeat.

The other tributes slowly began to drift off to their compartments. After the sweaty crowds and staring eyes, to be alone would be a blessing at this point. The main carriage became empty except for the boy chewing at his apple and Brigham Young who had remained, staring at him, head cocked to one side.

"I'm Brigham Young."

"I know," Was the reply, before the boy spit out some seeds.

"You can call me Briggs."

"How exciting for me."

Brigham eyed him up and down taking in the muscle that was reflected in few tributes apart from himself. "Well, do you have a name?

"Yes."

Brigham gave him an unimpressed look then picked up a piece of fruit for himself.

"It's Steve," The boy said, grinning at Brigham's annoyance. "Steve Blade."

"Well...Steve, I think we can make this work for us. You and I. In the arena."

"I don't really work with other people." Steve shrugged, tossing his apple core over his shoulder and reaching for another. "They usually hold me back."

"I'll be getting sponsors; the others won't. Lets face it, they all need me as an ally, you should feel lucky I'm choosing you."

"Should I now? Well riddle me this one Mr Young, if I need you so badly, why are you the one approaching me? Seen something you're afraid of? Want it on your side so it can't hurt you?"

"No I-"

With an action too fast for Brigham to even think about countering, Steve had swiped a knife off the table, grabbed the front of Brigham's shirt, pulled him towards him and was now holding the knife up to his throat.

"Are you going to kill me with that thing? It couldn't cut butter."

"I don't want to kill you, not yet anyway, but I am warning you. I won't be joining your merry little band of brothers in the arena, I don't need your help."

"What on earth-? Cut it out you two!"

They both turned simultaneously, Steve's knife clattering to the floor. It was Joseph Smith, a look of fury on his face, standing in the doorway.

"Save it for the arena boys."

Steve let go of Brigham, giving him an unceremonial shove before storming out of the carriage. They watched him go, waiting for the door to slam before anyone said anything.

"Did you ask him?"

"He said no."

"You need him on your side, he's dangerous."

"Well he said no."

Joseph sighed and turned the boy to face him. "I can only do so much. I'll try to keep you alive, but you need to keep your end of the deal."

"I can ask again." Brigham shrugged. "But I can't promise anything."

"I want you to talk to Mutumbo, he should be in the career pack as well, I can see him being more susceptible to it than Steve. I would ask you to try and get Kevin on your side but I'm not sure how easy it will be to pry him away from his brother."

"Yeah they'll stick together."

"Well, you're just going to have to find a way to gain his trust and force them to split up. Kevin's smart. You need that as well as brute strength. Now go to your room, we don't want to look suspicious. I have to gain the trust of twenty-three kids tonight and I don't think it's going to be easy."


	10. Chapter 10

The train had special blinds that distorted the world outside. During the day they simply showed a slideshow of various landscapes whizzing past the windows and at night they turned pitch black. If it weren't for the slightly fluorescent lamp by his bed, Ghali would be in complete darkness. He prefered not to switch it off when he slept. The blank canvas of darkness allowed itself to be painted with the horrific images he dreaded to face.

Sleep had never come easy to Ghali, even back at district nine. He lived directly next to a large factory that had workers on night shifts. The clattering of the machinery, the sounds of tired men going to and fro through the night and on to the morning, was too noisy to sleep through. His family and his neighbours had eventually got used to the disruptions, but Ghali never did.

He would be grateful for that cacophany now. The smooth train didn't make a sound as it shot along the track at two-hundred miles an hour. Some Capitol wizardry he thought.

He was gazing at the ceiling, his eyes sliding over the wood panels, when he first heard the screams.

They were muffled, but screams unmistakenly they were. Ghali's hands tightened on the covers as he drew them closer over himself. Maybe this was some kind of Capitol trick, to psyche him out, or a twist and they were now already pitted against each other.

The screams dulled down replaced by sobbing. Whoever is was obviously had their pillow pressed close to their face which provided the muffled sound. Had Ghali not been so close they would be missed, they were too quiet to wake someone.

Once he had confirmed to himself that the distress was coming from the room next to him, Ghali decided it would be safe to investigate. Slipping out of bed he put on some Capitol issued slippers that made him feel like he was walking on air. Wrapping a dressing gown round himself he opened the door to his compartment as quietly as he could.

The corridor was dark and silent the only light coming from a row of dim orbs that lined the wall. The room next to his was the last carriage on this side of the train. Even if the screams had been louder and had travelled through Ghali's room, he doubted anyone else would have been roused by them.

The carriage was marked with 'Connor McKinley', the first tribute chosen and the only one he had exchanged words with. Without knocking he pushed the door open. It was dark inside and the dim light from the corridor didn't reveal very much.

"Um...excuse me?"

The occupent of the bed had curled themselves into a tight ball, the sheets clutched around them, shaking almost violently. Ghali shut the door behind him and turned the small lamp by the bed on. He was surprised to see that Connor had been asleep, the light waking him.

"Night terrors?"

Connor looked around him confused, wiping the tears from his eyes, rubbed red raw. He pulled the creased and sweaty sheets closely around him.

"Worse," He murmured, his eyes darting left and right as he panted heavily. "Sorry, people aren't meant to see."

"That's ok."

Connor nodded, sniffing and taking deep breaths to calm down. Ghali perched himself on the end of the bed watching Connor for a moment.

"Don't go to sleep in the arena, if someone hears you screaming like that you'll be dead within a minute."

Connor laughed nervously. "I think I'll manage that even without the screaming."

"You've got a better chance than some of them."

"Really?"

Ghali didn't answer soon enough. Connor bit his lip and sunk further back into the headboard, the truth of his assumption coming over him. "I might as well be dead already."

"Don't say that."

"It's true, I'll die during the bloodbath."

"Sometimes the people you think are going to die first, don't."

"Yeah, they just die later instead."

Ghali sighed and shifted on the bed. He wasn't sure why he was trying to comfort a fellow tribute. He glanced at Connor and realised he was probably right. There was no way someone like him could keep up the fight until the end. Even he had a better shot.

"These dreams," Ghali began, changing the subject. "How long have they been going on for?"

"Since I was about ten. I can't really remember not having them."

"What happens in them?"

"I see...things."

"You sound like a crazy person." Ghali couldn't help laughing. "Sorry…What do you see?"

"Hell."

"Well you won't have to dream about that for much longer."

"Why?"

"Soon you'll be able to see it for real."


End file.
